Chapter 14 Maeve
MAEVE
The door slams shut behind the servers, hard enough to rattle the silverware on the table. No subtlety, no softness. It’s just a blunt echoing thud that seals us all in together like animals in an arena.
The issue here is we’re all predators—even me, surprisingly—so who is going to be the prey?
Their footsteps fade, and something almost physical settles in their absence. Power—raw, ancient, territorial power.
The tension settles like ash now that we’re alone. Nobody watching. Nobody to interfere.
And even worse—nobody to put a show on in front of.
The air thickens, the multitude of powerful mythical energies clashing together. It’s thick and oppressive and enough to choke my lungs with every breath I take.
Their scents alone warn of the battle that’s stewing.
A lesser shifter would be on their knees before they even entered the room, drooling on the floor, begging for mercy. Pathetic. They’d be unable to withstand the sheer intensity of this kind of power.
Not me. Unfortunately, I’m fully conscious for this upcoming circus.
On my left, Lucifer inhales like he’s just been handed a line of pure chaos. His pupils blow wide as he vibrates in his seat.
He’s the kind of chaos-gremlin that can’t ever disguise the insanity contained within.
His imp pushes at the seams of his skin, desperate to play in the dark energy humming through the room.
When he told me he was enchanted by the darkness, it’s clear he minimised the extent of how much.
On my right, Hadrian is the exact opposite—silent, furious, and radiating a darkness sharp enough to flay skin. His jaw ticks, and the only thing tighter than the way he’s hiding himself is the grip he has on the knife in his hands.
Foolish servers giving him one of those.
Where Luc’s soaking up the power and using it to energise himself, Hadrian’s repelling it with his own.
It’s quite… intoxicating, being surrounded by such power, considering I’m the biggest target at this table. I enjoy sitting between them, mostly.
The long table stretches before us—gleaming wood, gold-edged plates, crystal glasses catching the warm glow of overhead lighting.
It should look elegant. It’s just another ridiculous extravagance for a nest of predators dressed in silk, diamonds, and generational delusion.
And me, of course.
Adrian sits at one end of the table. Helen at the other. Dictator and warden, each framed like royalty pretending not to be terrified of losing their crowns.
How fun.
Helen’s twinkling laugh is fake as she listens to the women on her left side.
In all formal settings, the split on gender is always adhered to. The men take one end, where they talk business, while the decorations—oh, sorry, the women—sit on the other. Separated, but bonded.
A king can’t do without his… well, I don’t know what you’d call someone who shares your soul but is still beneath you.
Hadrian disrupted the balance of power at the table by refusing to allow me to sit next to his aunt.
A gender line snapped in half by a single, petty act of rebellion. I should thank him.
Or stab him.
I go back and forth depending on how annoying he’s being.
Julian refused to sit away from our safe little bubble, so he’s near us, too. Tarun obeyed the seating chart like the obedient little elephant he is, landing him right beside Julian and his smug uncle.
I’m quite embarrassed for his sucking up, but at least he’s happy.
Unlike my roommate that he destroyed.
I swear, every single person at this table is worthy of death, each for a specific sin that they’ve committed. I could do a brilliant job of exterminating them.
You know, if someone else touched them and did the act, and I just rubbed salt into their wounds.
Adrian clears his throat softly, a king about to address his court. Scents coil through the air, layered and clashing, and it causes my stomach to churn unnecessarily.
Bharlo’s damp, rotting earth, and Dorian’s cold metal and winter wind are the worst of the bunch. I never did like winter—much more of a spring girl.
Food steam curls upward from the platters, rich and heady—herbed eggs, spiced meats, roasted vegetables, fresh breads.
It should make my mouth water. Instead, my stomach flips.
If I put even a crumb in my mouth right now, I’ll redecorate the table. As much as they’d deserve it, I refuse to be this weak in front of them.
The Graves, the politicians, the monsters, and me—the problem they haven’t figured out how to solve.
“Well, then,” Adrian says calmly. “Let’s begin.”
Every hair on my body rises, and panic claws its way up my throat. My chromius curls tight inside me, pacing like a caged beast.
“I’ve had enough of this family, personally,” Lucifer announces, stabbing a sausage so violently I can hear the squeals of the already dead pig. “I’ve been back in your delectable company for—ugh, longer than any mortal sin deserves—and, somehow, I hate you all more than before.”
He shoves the sausage into his mouth, still somehow elegant about it, and I grimace. Only Lucifer could make violence look like theatre.
Also—trusting this table’s food? Rookie mistake. These people poison with a smile. I wouldn’t trust them to pour a glass of water without lacing it with arsenic.
Dorian doesn’t blink. “Grow up, son. You love everything our family name has afforded you.”
“I haven’t touched any of my inheritance. I refuse the surname. I avoid all of you like you’re a contagious rash. If that’s love, Daddy, then kindly shoot me now and save me the trouble.”
Lucifer barks out an icy laugh that has a shiver racing up my spine.
I drag my stare over to his profile. He lifts a brow at me, wordlessly asking what he did this time.
Maybe if he hadn’t clung to Helen the second we walked in, I’d feel a smidge less inclined to publicly humiliate him.
No, I definitely still would have.
I snort. “Luc, you’re only proving his point. You sound obsessed. It’s quite cute, really, the way you’re more invested in this family than a teenage girl with her first crush.”
“Cute?” he snarls.
His eyes darken, his inner imp pushing at the seams of his skin—hungry, restless, unhinged.
Goodness, my chromius loves it.
Traitorous, thirsty bitch.
“Not you,” I clarify, just in case he gets any ideas. “Just your trauma. That part’s cute.”
The temperature drops. All twelve pairs of Graves eyes cut towards me, and I’m suddenly standing under a microscope held by predators.
Do I like it?
Absolutely fucking not.
Do they care?
Not even slightly.
Marianne leans in, gentle in a way that’s meant to disguise the venom. Shame she’s more transparent than my own reflection.
“We all have our parts to play, Maeve, dear. Bri did her best with Lucifer, but—”
“She did her best?” I laugh bitterly. “Please. I’ve met rubbish bins with more maternal instincts than the women at this table.”
Helen flinches, and guilt tugs at me, briefly, but so sharp. I didn’t mean her—even I’m not that cruel.
But the bristling from the three Annes soothes the guilt nicely.
“Maeve,” Adrian warns, soft but sharp. I don’t know if he expects me to back off, but it’s not going to happen.
I truly love playing with his pawns. They’re so easy to break.
“Julian, you loved your role in this family until she corrupted you,” Tarun cuts in, and I snort.
“Corrupting men is my speciality, T,” I drawl lazily. “Their souls. Their sanity. Their reputation. It’s a hobby of mine, you know? Such a pity for them that I’m quite good at it.”
“Oh, fuck off, Maeve,” Tarun snaps.
“Tarun,” Adrian says, and his voice is razor-thin, the warning sharp enough to make his nephew hold his tongue.
That’s the difference between them and I. They want to be on Adrian’s good side. I don’t even want my name said in the same room as his.
“Talk to her like that again, cuz, and you won’t be leaving this brunch with all your limbs,” Lucifer hisses, leaning past Julian to stare down the elephorian.
I tilt my head, letting my smile sharpen. “Quite bold of you to poke at me, Tarun. Especially considering the leverage I have on you.”
I sink back in my chair, careful not to actually let the back touch me—too much sensation, too much risk—but I fake the laze of someone utterly unbothered.
Power is ninety percent posture after all.
“Don’t try and act brave,” Tarun snaps.
“Don’t try and act like a victim,” I counter, shrugging. “You’re all so good at that already.”
His brows lift. “All?”
I lean forward, letting the smile bloom slow and cruel. “Men, Tarun. Keep up.”
“Nobody here is a victim,” Marianne insists, her spine as rigid as her face. “We’re family.”
“Right,” I say brightly. “And Tarun is the family’s shining example of success. Truly inspirational stuff.”
“I don’t particularly enjoy being paraded around like a show dog,” Tarun says bitterly. “But we all must do our parts.”
“Oh, Tarun, please don’t stoop to their level, son,” Marianne coos. “You’re such a good boy.”
Tarun preens under the compliment. It’s pathetic.
I giggle anyway—because it’s either laugh or scream.
“He is,” Adrian says, chiming in like an overbearing cult leader. “All of you are.”
Hadrian scoffs, sharp and humourless. “Don’t lie. There’s a hierarchy at this table, and Luc and I are fighting for last place.”
“Don’t take my one claim to fame away from me,” I grumble. “I love being the unwanted sheep of the Graves family.”
“Don’t ever say that about yourself, Maeve,” Adrian snaps.
The whole family freezes like puppets yanked taut by invisible strings.
Well—everyone except the nephews, of course.
Boring fuckers.
“You, sweetheart, are wanted. You’re needed,” he adds. “And you’re playing your part beautifully.”
Of course, I am. Pretty little naive Maeve, doing her job. I was a fool for all these years, and I don’t care how late into the game we are—I’m not going to lose.
I’ll be dismantling his control over me, piece by piece, until the only thing that he has left is his life.
And then—I’ll take that, too.